The Ruin of Elizabeth Bennet: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Darcie Rochester

  Elizabeth would no doubt be disgusted by his rancor. Implacable resentment was one of the many faults in his character she had laid bare during their acquaintance. These last few years had taught him there was truth to all she had accused him of.

  Arrogance.

  Conceit.

  Selfish disdain for the feelings of others.

  Yes, he owned all these defects and more. Most days he was all but worthless, vacillating between self-blame and self-pity, both useless emotions. He attended to his duties to his estate and his family . . . and little else. All who knew him well saw the difference in him and looked on him with concern.

  He knew he did not deserve their compassion. The trials of life had revealed him to be wanting in character, a weak man who had not the strength to improve himself.

  Elizabeth would be his savior or his destruction. An irrational part of him believed being with her would heal his damaged soul. Another part, darker and more irrational still, considered her fall from grace proper vengeance for her refusal of his offer of marriage. This demon, buried deep within him held her responsible for all the anguish in his life. If she had consented when she should have, his marriage—Anne's death—none of it would have ever happened.

  This evil motive he could not acknowledge, even to himself. As pathetic as he had become his reason told him Elizabeth was blameless. She was everything good.

  Reason also told him if he went to her tonight he would ruin her and nothing would be accomplished but pain on both sides. Once, Fitzwilliam Darcy had been a man ruled by reason. But, he thought as he got into his carriage, when has reason ever led me anywhere pleasant?

  Chapter Six

  "Tonight," was all the missive had said. That was something to admire him for, Lizzy thought, her Mr. Darcy never wasted words. No, she corrected herself, I am his Elizabeth but he is not my Mr. Darcy.

  She crossed the room and peeked out the window for the hundredth time that evening. Maybe he won't come. That thought kept creeping back to her, though she knew it was too much to hope.

  He would come. She would fall.

  Seeing nothing of interest, Lizzy returned to her comfortable chair and picked up her book. It was one of the six books Mr. Darcy had gifted her to make up for the pitifulness of the library.

  While the house Mr. Darcy had found to stow her away in was nothing to Lydia's townhouse if her youngest sister's boasting were to be believed, it was still vastly grander than Lizzy thought necessary. It was comprised of four bedrooms, a drawing room, a (mediocre) library, a dining room, the kitchen and the servants' quarters. The rooms were small and there was no garden, but it still seemed a waste of space for just herself.

  The neighborhood was not fashionable, but it was certainly not questionable as her previous neighborhood had been. It was a neighborhood for those grasping desperately to the shirttails of gentility. A fitting place for her, really, though she was certain her neighbors would not agree if they came to know the sort of woman she was.

  When they came to know. In any neighborhood, regardless of class, there was one dedicated soul, generally an older woman, whose inquisitiveness and lack of other entertainments conspired to make her the neighborhood spy. This snoop would watch the house, see that only one particular gentleman was ever admitted, and draw the obvious conclusion.

  Then all the neighborhood would know what she was.

  But they would not know who she was. Even the servants, of which there were three, did not know Lizzy's true name. To them she was Mrs. Smith and, though she was certain they saw this for the apparent nom de guerre it was, they had not displayed their curiosity if they had any.

  Lizzy tossed the book aside. It could not distract her from her anxiety. To keep from fretting about Mr. Darcy's impending arrival, Lizzy chose instead to fret about her sisters. She had told them she had found employment as a companion to Mrs. Peyton, a wealthy, elderly widow, whom she had met at a bookshop. Mrs. Peyton had taken an instant liking to her and offered her employment with not only generous wages, but an advance on those generous wages that would allow Lizzy to settle their mother's debts and pay a physician to visit Jane. An absurd story, which her sisters had taken for truth so readily Lizzy was left to wonder if such innocents would be safe on their own.

  Yet on their own they were. Before leaving three days ago, Lizzy had reminded Mary and Kitty not to exhaust Jane with their bickering. Then she had given them money for the market that week. Both of her younger sisters had looked aghast at so small a sum.

  Let them see what it is like to keep house on one pound fourteen shillings a week. Perhaps they will learn greater respect for me . . . or at least greater respect for money, Lizzy thought.

  Mr. Darcy had offered to pay for a maid to care for Jane but Lizzy had declined. It would be difficult to explain such an expense and she hoped Mary and Kitty would rise to the occasion. Jane was not a complete invalid. She needed only occasional assistance. They could certainly handle it. On Sunday she would visit them and all would be well.

  All her attempts to reassure herself accomplished very little. She was still terribly worried about her sisters . . . but she was more worried about herself at the moment. Mr. Darcy was a good employer thus far. He had offered her more than she had asked for: paying her mother's debts, assuring her Jane would have access to the best medical professionals, and promising any treatments they prescribed would be covered by him.

  In addition to the house and her upkeep, he had also set up credit for her at various shops, but she had not patronized any of them. Spending his money on herself would make it harder to convince herself later she had done it all for her sisters.

  Even with his additional generosity, she would still receive her two thousand pounds at the end of their association. Whenever that might be. This was the only complaint she could have; he would not tell her when he would let her go. But she was certain his love—lust—would quickly fade. Then she would be free.

  At least soon she would know what she faced. The unknown had tormented her these last three days. She knew the physical facts of what would happen . . . or at least she had a strong theory. It was the implications rather than the act itself that frightened her most of all.

  The pain—yes—that made her a little wary, but the pleasure posed a greater threat. She had overheard enough indelicate conversations in her lifetime to know that ladies could take pleasure in the act. What would it say about her if she enjoyed her own ruin?

  Something in her mind nagged her. It insisted it was not only anxiety she felt, but anticipation. That pleasure was not just a possibility, it was likely because she was wicked. She had always been wicked that was why she would agree to such a scheme.

  This was not the first time Lizzy had considered she might be inherently immoral. The subject came up time and time again throughout her life. Upon hearing the story of Eve and the forbidden fruit at the age of seven, she had made the blasphemous declaration that Eve was not bad at all—that she would herself eat the fruit of knowledge if offered quite happily, no trickery required. Her papa had laughed, but her mama had exclaimed, "Unnatural child" and swatted her with an embroidery hoop.

  Lizzy continued to be an unnatural child. She sought knowledge even when she knew it was the sort of knowledge young ladies should not have. She questioned what should be unquestionable.

  Faith and goodness seemed to come naturally to some, but to her, though no one would know it—no one would ever guess since she had always behaved well, never challenging morality through any action—goodness did not come easily. She had played by the rules of society because it was what was best—what was safest—for herself and her sisters. Not because all of the rules made sense.

  Another childhood memory haunted her this night. She and all of her sisters had been sent out of the house for a walk to spare their mother's nerves. Lydia, who had darted ahead as she always did, came back and dragged them all off the path with much enthusiasm. The scene she led them to was quite commonpla
ce in pastoral life—the stud had been set to a mare.

  Lydia, just nine years old, had giggled, enjoying the other girls' bashful responses.

  Kitty had giggled then blushed and looked away.

  Mary had sent her youngest sibling a reproachful glare as she blushed and looked away.

  Jane had blushed and looked away, adding to her performance a perfunctory "Lydia!" spoken in a tone meant to be scolding, but her voice was far too sweet to have any reforming effect.

  Lizzy had not looked away. She had not giggled. She might have blushed—she could not recall. But she did not look away this time as she usually did. It was then she had realized she possessed no natural primness; she had only looked away all those other times because she knew she ought to look away. That was what proper young ladies did.

  To her, it had begun to seem that young ladies could hardly look directly at the world around them.

  When complimented they lowered their eyes and blushed prettily.

  When they were shocked or overset they threw their hand over their eyes and declared themselves unwell or, if they could manage it, swooned most properly.

  And when cattle rutted they looked at anything but the beasts.

  But Lizzy did look that day. She was fourteen and in only a few more years would make her come out.

  The purpose of coming out was to meet a gentleman, and the purpose of meeting a gentleman was to get married, and the purpose of marriage was to make children. Or so it had appeared to her adolescent self.

  Though her mama refused to discuss it, Lizzy had extrapolated that humans reproduced in quite the same manner as other animals. Therefore she had to assume that someday her husband would do something much like the stallion was doing to the mare to her in order to get her with child.

  She needed to know. It was scourge of her life, she forever needed to know.

  And so she and Lydia had watched—Lizzy with a scientific fascination and Lydia with that delight that comes with doing something naughty—while their sisters had diverted their eyes and hurried on.

  Though Lizzy liked to think she was not at all like her youngest sister she knew in some ways she and Lydia had the most in common of all their sisters. They possessed the same curiosity—the same penchant for naughtiness. Lizzy's impishness had been tempered by good sense, which had saved her from the kind of perilous mischief Lydia had found herself in. Until now.

  Had she been wrong to judge Lydia, she wondered. Was it perhaps something innate to her—to both of them—that had caused their fall?

  I have not fallen yet, not quite, she thought desperately.

  But you will, said another voice from the back of her mind, a voice that sounded much like her own, but the words it spoke were always frightening. Perhaps it was Eve.

  The sound of a carriage halting outside the house brought Lizzy out of her contemplations. It was him. She should go to the door and greet him but she could not. She was overcome by emotion, struck still.

  Lizzy could only listen as her doom came closer.

  The click of the key in the lock.

  The rustling of fabric as he removed his great coat.

  The strike of boots upon the stair.

  All of these sound barely audible over rapid heartbeat of a falling woman.

  Chapter Seven

  Darcy watched her from the doorway of the drawing room. He felt certain she was aware of his presence, yet she did not stir. She was curled up in a chair, stockinged feet tucked beneath her. There was a book in her hands, but her eyes were on the fireplace, staring unseeingly. It was the sort of scene he had longed to get a glimpse of—Elizabeth as she was only to the people who knew her well.

  "Miss Elizabeth," he said, bringing her out of the trance.

  "Mr. Darcy." She surged to her feet and bobbed a curtsy. He answered with a bow.

  Her lips twitched. "How ridiculous."

  He assumed she was referring to the formality of their greeting. "Yes . . . quite," he replied, too solemnly.

  Laughter burst from her in an indelicate snort. Her hand flew to her mouth as if to silence the eruption, but it was too late. She continued to laugh and Darcy surprised himself by joining in, beginning with the uncomfortable chuckle of a person who feels he might have missed the jest then slowly settling into full-blown laughter.

  When they quieted she continued to smile up at him. It was a patient smile that could make him forget years of torment and wash away the most egregious of sins. Yet she seemed disinclined to speak.

  "You are reading." He spoke into the void before it could become an impassable chasm.

  "Yes, Waverley."

  "Ah, you started with that. I thought you favored Edgeworth."

  "I must confess I've been switching between them. My concentration has proved flighty this evening."

  "You read more than one book at once?"

  Her eyes lit up at his severe tone and her lips gathered in the delightful pout that always preceded a tease. "I can see you disapprove. Tell me, Mr. Darcy, what is it that offends you about my method of reading? Do you believe the book set aside will resent my attention to the other?"

  "I was admiring your application, not expressing censure. Your confusion is understandable, however. I have been told it is difficult to discern my admiration from my disapproval."

  Silence fell over them once more and this time it was awkward, the improper purpose of his visit having returned to both of their minds.

  Lizzy entreated him to be seated. He took the chair across from her, but sat in it for only an instant before he stood and began walking about the room.

  Hoping he might be tempted to sit again she said, "I can make tea if you like." Tea would be a bother—she had sent away the servants early, having no wish of witnesses to her ruin—but it would be worth it to calm him. His frenetic movement was giving her nerves.

  "No, thank you."

  After another minute of tense silence Lizzy asked, "Shall we retire?"

  Darcy nodded.

  Lizzy stood. Taking the candle from the table beside her, she led him out of the drawing room to the stairs. I am taking a man to my bed chamber. Instead of the cold horror she knew she should be experiencing, she felt as though she had drunk tea too quickly. A warmth spread throughout her, settling in her loins accompanied by a sensation of tightening. Desire. She was not so innocent that she could not identify the feeling. Mr. Darcy was the only man who made her so potently aware of it. Another thing to resent him for.

  They entered her room and Lizzy set about lighting candles with the taper she carried. When her task was accomplished, she turned back to Mr. Darcy. He took a careful step towards her, as if she might bolt upon too quick a movement.

  His caution was unnecessary. Lizzy felt not a hint of maidenly bashfulness. She was done with worry.

  Her brow arched quite of its own volition and a mocking smirk tugged at her lips though she tried to suppress it. She failed. With a lift of the chin that said, "Do your worst," her look of defiance was complete.

  Darcy observed the challenge with surprise, then wondered why he should be surprised. He certainly hadn't expected meekness. Never from her.

  Those lips were not the held in the sweet simper of a lover, but the taunting sneer of an adversary who is certain of her superiority. But her eyes—could it be?—Darcy saw in those fine eyes a glint of desire.

  He closed the distance between them. This is a woman who has never been kissed, he thought as he watched her eyes flutter shut and her head tilt back in anticipation. He kissed her with greater control than he thought himself capable of, brushing her lips softly. A sweet, chaste kiss, the sort that might be stolen in an unchaperoned moment during a most proper courtship.

  Darcy stepped away.

  He'd had her first kiss and he knew it should be enough.

  Should be—but wasn't. A taste of the forbidden was never enough.

  He reached for her, pulling her flush against him, wrapping her in his embrace. She made no p
rotest, meeting his lips with tentative eagerness. One kiss stretched into another. Caresses, at first hesitant, became feverish. Innocent though she was, Elizabeth proved a quick study, mastering the lessons in passion he taught with ease.

  Darcy spun her around—or perhaps she turned on her own accord, either way, the buttons at her back parted exposing the nape of her neck to his lips. With struggle, Darcy forced himself to slow the pace, savoring the softness of her skin and the contented sigh his tender touch elicited from her lips.

  He stepped around her until they were facing again. Watching her for signs of alarm, he guided the mournful frock from her shoulders. Lizzy waited for the shame to settle upon her—having forgone stays, she was wearing nothing beyond her chemise—yet it did not come.

  His eyes waited for her to falter, but she would not display such weakness. Reaching for his coat she unfastened one button then another before he seized her around the waist, crushing her lips with his own.

  Some minutes later Lizzy found herself lolling across the bed looking every inch a courtesan with her hair falling seductively from its coiffure and the skirt of her chemise raised to her thighs. She watched as Darcy yanked off his boots, impatient to return to her. He was as disheveled as she; Lizzy could not say if she had divested him of his coat or if he had shed it himself.

  She wondered at her own detached calmness. In a short time she would be bare before him and a short time after that her virginity would be forfeit, yet she could not muster the slightest regret. All she felt now was yearning.

  Wicked. Wicked. Wicked.

  The removal of his boots complete, Darcy started to tend to his waist-coat but then, deciding he could not wait, returned his attentions to her.

  Elizabeth gasped out his name in a breathy whisper as his tongue danced over the sensitive flesh behind her ear. "Mr. Darcy," she called out again.

  He stilled.

  He had dreamed of hearing his name on her lips, spoken in ecstasy. However, in all his dreams she called him Fitzwilliam. And in all his dreams she was his wife. Why such a thing would strike him so harshly now—slicing through the haze of lust to his conscience—he did not know, but he drew away from her.